


Moving On

by naaz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Artist Draco Malfoy, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Happily Ever After, M/M, Two boys just dealing with their trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naaz/pseuds/naaz
Summary: Harry and Draco attempt to find domestic bliss in a studio apartment.A portrait of a happy(ish) ending.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 49





	Moving On

Thin brush strokes on flesh-colored canvas and Harry is kissing at his shoulder. Draco’s attention is pulled from his work.

Somehow they’ve fallen into this masquerade. They play at living a normal life that in reality is so far from “normal” it’s laughable. Harry has a near-clinical aversion to the term. 

Boho, bright colors and patchwork quilts of color across couches, the floor, and across Harry’s skin. The sun rises directly to shine in the single floor-to-ceiling window of their studio apartment.

Harry stretches out and reaches for Draco. His lips press sleeping spells into whatever skin he can reach as his stubble brushes against Draco’s jaw. Quiet pleas for Draco to sleep on smiling lips as he works from ear to collarbone.

These days Draco goes to sleep every other night with paint beneath his fingernails. It’s preferable to the alternatives. Even when it clumps into white-blond hair and Harry gets to scold him still as he plucks the color free. Harry enjoys that sort of mother-henning and Draco whines obligingly the entire time.

They live far, far from London.

Further still from her dirty back alleys and polished metropolitan streets and the secrets that neither of them felt they could keep anymore. 

In comparison the borough is expensive. This one room is more than Draco can make in a month but when they split the rent they make it work. It looks good on them. No one knows who they are. Two twenty-something queers falling asleep on the subway from late-night poetry readings. 

Harry has new glasses that shape his face and his hair is long enough it’s forced to have shape. He looks like a young James Potter and Draco delights in making the comparison. 

In their own ways… they failed, but that doesn’t seem so bad these days. There are fewer bouts of crying, the panic attacks aren’t at nearly so regular of intervals. It’s become easier to go a day without reminders. The reminders they do find are fewer and further between. 

They’re dealing.

There's a mountain taking shape on Harry's left pec.

Below it is a river.

It doesn’t look anything like the Manor but Harry still asks even though he’s been there too. Draco can almost buy it because Harry didn’t grow up in those gardens or staring out at the rolling hillsides. But the Manor had been perpetually grey, the garden the only real splash of color but a beautiful one none the less.

There’s a pause and Draco leans forward from where he’s perched on Harry’s hips and he kisses him, softly. He thanks him for asking.

It’s as close to an offer to talk as they get.

Sometimes Draco will ask if Harry’s done something because it reminds him of how they went at Hogwarts. Or he’ll ask about Sirius on the nights where dreams fold into nightmares and all Draco can do is be there to whisper calming words Harry’s hair as he holds him.

Draco hopes that Harry hears them. He hopes his presence does offer some comfort and Harry smiles and promises that he does. He gives that soft, genuine smile that makes Draco’s heart beat heavier in his chest.

He feels that smile against his neck before Harry lays back again. Draco ignores Harry watching him as he smears paint with his fingers. He pulls water onto a shore and above it, he fills in happy little trees and a serene little cabin. 

He enjoys Bob Ross on the public access television channel that plays on repeat as he paints during the day. He only turns the tv off when there’s mention of snow. He doesn’t like winter, he doesn’t like the cold. Draco’s paintings are warm-blooded, like the body below him.

Harry smiles up at him, gives a soft little chuckle and Draco’s heart stutters.

They call it heart palpations in the muggle world, but Draco sort of likes the feeling of his heart lifting up and slamming against his breast bone.


End file.
